Jaidyn-Jaxxon hates Tim Winton’s Cloudstreet. Apparently. I would have respected it more if he was chopping up Cloud Street with a copy of Catcher in The Rye, but still…ahhh…kudos, JJ, kudos. 
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The Worst of Perth 
did you set fire to it afterwards?
and then sacrifice a goat on the same tree stump, paint arcane designs on your naked body with the blood and ashes, and run around the neighbourhood screaming?
no?
lightweight
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Actually I prefer ‘welterweight’
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Who knew Bathox do merch?
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A TWOP tee-shirt would have been more appropriate for the ceremony/photos.
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I know that’s you JJ… eating the entrails of your enemy…
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He seems to also have cut off the phallus of his enemy too.
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Bathory???
Really?
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They say Satan is a good servant but a bad master. Like the shirt though.
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Shame, I wish I hadn’t listened to that now. Previously I was imagining it sung to the tune of Daniel.
Satan my master
You are – older than me
Do you still feel the pain
Of the scars that won’t heal?
Your arse has died & cetera
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I often wonder during which year did metal disappear up its own arse and begin to sound like someone studiously but enthusiastically removing their fingers with an angle grinder at a panel beaters?
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I’m not sure, Oni, but this is what TISM would’ve sounded like, had they been around in ’72.
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The only important thing is rhythm and melody, as true now as it was back then.
I have either seen that clip before or imagined it. Weren’t they the prescursor to Daddy Cool or Mother Goose or somesuch?
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Nope, Oni, although they all looked the same under all that hair. The only link is that the guitarist Eric McCusker later played in Mondo Rock. Mother Goose were from Dunedin.
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I’m liking Death form the 70’s, known as the black Stooges.
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That’s just uncalled for. By way of an antidote I’d like to present this, but be warned; you may be there for some time. That one’s for you, DFOC.
On a related note, years ago there was an upload of this scene, but some error developed and it hasn’t been working for some time. Fortunately I’ve found another one in the middle of this clip, which I tried to copy to Splicd but embedding has been disabled. So, the relevant section runs from 1:23 to 7:00. Enjoy.
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omigod Snuff…all work has ceased…
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I’ve never read Winton, and the intensity of the hatred expressed here disturbs me. I’m curious, and I will start by reading his worst book. Any suggestions?
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Isn’t Dirt Music regarded as his worst? I don’t know. Hated Cloud Street, so didn’t bother with the rest.
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‘Teh Riders’ (also destroyed that fine evening) is pretty disreputable, but for sheer bloody phwoar it’s got to be Cloudstreet.
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it has to be Cloud Street, because he goes the full retard
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This site – and its creator – is disturbia central.
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E.V. the level of hatred is determined by the puppetmeister.
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As suggested by this, though I think JJ was well on his way in any case.
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Has DFOC got a gig at the Perth Wirter’s Festival. If so , I’m sure he’ll help JJ out with details of writers’ whereabouts.
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The joke’s on you. That’s a school curriculum book and you’ve just buggered your resale value.
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Evidently JJ’s loathing for Winton transcends petty economics, Pete.
He HAS however created excellent kindling. Winton for Winter. Yairs.
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Strewth, thought Jaidyn as the blocksplitter bit into the straggling woodpulpy remnants sitting on the hardwood, thats me long standin complaint with bloody Winton brought to a satisfyin conclusion.
Yairs, he thought as the literary confetti settled on the old granite flags setting the ants frantic, that’s the way, the simple ways like back in Lugger’s Bluff before the bushfire and the old man’s suicide and the awful bloody dealins with modernity…just meself, a stack a Wintons, and my axe.
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Ah yes, droppin the g.
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just did a search for twop at saigon airport and all the patti chong threads come up as a default.
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Ai Ya!
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Steeling yourself for your return eh?
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Nah, probably one of those “Perth haters” finally leaving.
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really, I thought the worst brothel was still the most ‘trending’, as the young people say
but good to see that Patti Patti has not been forgotten
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It’s not over. Isn’t the movie just about to come out, in all its parochial glory?
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JJ now writing the scripts for Myles Barlow. This one must be “Does school lit”.
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‘That wasn’t so bad’, he thought, as he left the admin building and went into the harsh mid-afternoon west coast light.
The heat from the macadam wafted up his shorts and eddied: it was like being on the ferry jetty at Rotto before the breeze came in. He had wanted to tell the kids about the transcending moments of a young writer’s life, and thought of that day with Roslyn Kirby on the rocks.
Above them, out of sight, ferries hooted and holidaymakers stretched their limbs, but he and Ros had forgotten their fishing tackle and were intent on each other’s salty essence amid the tangled lines and putrid bait…
He didn’t normally do school visits these days, but a mate had asked him to talk to these kids – he had gone to school with the principal’s ex-wife – and he had a free arvo, and he thought what the hell.
Getting away from the computer was a good notion, too, after that wanker had told him about that crappy website again.
“Mate, they’ve speared you,” was the garrulous laugh over the phone – and after he clicked on the link he felt a stabbing in his vitals.
So better to forget about that rubbish and talk to some kids – they weren’t consumed with jealousy, and had a terrible determination to lash out like a drunk deckhand who’d a pony or three more than they were used to…
But that kid at the front was weird, man…the other nippers had called him a legend, and laughed at his questions…Christ, didn’t the teachers or parents monitor kids on the ‘net these days?
If he’d said something like that his dad would have clobbered him with the strap he made from one of the belts at the whaling station.
What had the kids yelled? “101”. Was Orwell still on the book list?
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Nice!
I just read Robert Drewe’s (he’s protected right?) Grace – it was pretty good.
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Awesome!
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what about the kid at the back of the class waving a piece of paper with the word “knife” scrawled on it.
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At least that’s an improvement.
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I had hoped for a bit of Wintoning with an axe-wielding Swedish death metal theme
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Foam gathered on the shining sand as the tide gently lulled its way landward. School holidays were here, so Clem and the other boys had made the long hot trek down to Shep’s Cove to fish. They reminisced about what they had caught last summer – whole schools it seemed of silvery whiting; bronze-scaled mulloway; the occasional Gummy – and what they hadn’t: Becky Price and her friends, with their lithe, tanned limbs and teasing smiles. Maybe this summer, they mused amongst themselves. With a few flicks of his rod, Scotty hauled in a good-sized flathead, which puffed and contracted on the sand before giving a final paroxysmic heave. “It’s a bewdy,” Clem said, stepping forward to unhook Scotty’s haul. As he bent over the fish, something in its scaly stillness caused Clem’s skull to prickle, as though the still fish augured further death. In that instant Scotty, dropping his rod, gasped and mutely pointed seaward, his finger trembling. Long wooden ships with dragon carved prows, as they could see even from this distance, rapidly made for the shore. They quickly retreated to the nearby dunes. Clem looked back as he ran, breaking out in a cold sweat despite the baking heat. Several hundred men disembarked from the now beached ships. Lean and tall to the last they were, with piercing blue eyes and flowing blond hair topped by horned helmets. Swords and axes, glinting in the noonday sun, hung from their rangy sides. Several of the men looked across from where Scotty had carelessly flung his rod, their eyes following the frantic trail of kicked-up sand leading to the boys’ hiding place. “De har sett oss,” said one of them. Another, taller than the rest and with a long red beard, apparently the leader, grunted: “Döda dem!” Detaching from the main group, several of the warriors issued blood-curdling screams as they ran toward the dunes. The boys stood transfixed – frightened, or unbelieving, or both – as the men quickly advanced upon them, the hafts of their axes raised high into the maddening sunshine….
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respect
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Wintoning meets Wells Tower
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And of course the blood on the axe reminded him of his father slaughtering a sheep in that sun baked Merredin yard… and the yellow of their hair would have been like acres of wheat to the horizon, heat haze…
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Yes, could go on for a lot longer with this. Temptation to write the violent scenes almost too much. I’m imagining vikings sacking Geraldton for some reason, or perhaps rowing up the Swan. Back to work.
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and if you could imagine them vandalising the sydney memorial i’d be grateful.
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And throwing rocks at drunks while you’re down there.
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The Norsemen may have appreciated the jingoistic ancestor worship which substitutes for religion in Oz these days.
I’m noticing far fewer flags on cars in the lead up to Oz day this year…
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I noticed the lack of flags as well. Last year, Mr Jeez and I counted a few hundred in the two weeks before A/Day (points awarded daily for sighting the car with the most flags – record was six flags). This year I don’t think we cracked 50.
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Soundtrack: Riders on the Storm sung by Jimmy Little.
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Brilliant NF#1.
I do like a happy ending.
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By the droplets of Gleipnir, he breathed, what a bloody raid. All around them, the smouldering remnants of castaway lives, the crimson-scorched wreckage of those free and easy souls who’d made it, to a fella, made it down that ever-secret, ever-winding road to the good times. Wasted but well spent, those long nights out under the waning moon with your toes dangling off the jetty, a dhuhy in one hand ‘n a Toohey’s in the other, just listening to that bubbling, rollicking trickle-tide between the treated timbers. Fenrir’s bane, he muttered to himself, those had been the days. Up until today, he realised – and christ almighty what a thought! until today when they’d rolled in, longboats cresting the rollers like chips on gravy, surging upward, forward, the barren stink of death already prescient in their wake, just like that old bloke – Jonno, or had they called him Snapper – so difficult to be sure, here in the lilting summer haze, the glassy ripples and refractions dancing across your eyelids as you squint out and across to the furthest horizon, to that leaping tumbling line that’s always shifting, so slightly that you can barely tell, so barely that you can hardly be sure of it at all. Just like Snapper. Or was it Deano? Deano, perhaps that was it. What a character he’d been, a sly dog that one, always puttering around behind the store, always on the lookout for that golden opportunity when the Tip-Top man went in to settle the invoice, or maybe just have a perve on Becky’s mum, that one fleeting moment, slippery as a turtle’s tongue, when he could make off with a sack of Sandwich Slice. And then of course we’d all rack off up the dunes to foister and cankle, our little bread boondys clenched up in our fists as we led a trail of unwanted crusts through the whispering spinifex like some Hansel and Gretel of the never-never. Those had been the days, alright, he breathily reminisced, they sure bloody had. Up until. He shouldered his axe. Bloody pillaging. He’d kill for a mead…
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Bjorn is just a viking
He is very a handy with a sword
He loves nothing better
Than to cut and slash right through a horde
Mutilation, jubilation
Friendly muscle, in a tussle
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Merely filling space
Awaiting the arrival
Of assured master
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It’s that taste of home
We all of us can feel it
Everyone belongs
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Jesper? Is that you?
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Oh yes, Pete. Yes it is.
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OMG is that a knife his holding in the first picture!
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My friend thats a Ka-Bar Kraton-G figthing knife not just your ordinary knife its got it all.
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You could fillet a Dugong with that mother.
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OMG WHY DOES YOUR FRIEND HAVE THIS FOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Stop press http://au.news.yahoo.com/thewest/entertainment/a/-/entertainment/9191536/cloudstreet-tv-series-launched-in-perth/
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Oh. Okay.
Or you can just go home.
I’ll wait, okay?
If you like.
TLA waits in the warm darkness. He sees the warm glow of an IPhone in the darkness. Another tweet? A witty note requiring moderation, maybe. He cocks his head and sees it again – an Ipad.
Water laps against the shore and some cnut calls across the estuary. He tweets some more while walking the Arro adn he;s so absorbed by the little puffs of ego that he doesn’t realise DFOC has returned until he touches his shoulder in the dark and he gives out a yelp of man touch.
Sorry, he says, Didn’t mean to scare you.
You didn’t, he lies.
They head back up Beaufort St in an awkward silence. TLA smells the charred chorizo smoke on his skin. He’s still tingling from his touch. But he tweets instead.
Is Ben Cousins corpse worth the cash? he blurts.
DFOC says nothing.
I don’t even know what a dead AFL perthonality is worth, he says with his heart halfway up his neck.
Gotta be worth more’n WAFL, eh.
Jesus, TLA.
Not that there’s anything wrong with WAFL, he mumbles, but he cuts him off.
Look, spare me the sympathy gig, willya, he says angrily.
TLA stops in his tracks, dribbling.
Listen, DFOC says, hissing in his face so close that TLA can feel the anger on his breath. I dont edit orright? I take the posts and put’em up no worries. I don’t need ths gig, or the money that bad. I’m not out here sellin meself every night feedin the family, its a hobby, using me acute sense of timin on bloated news executives. Orright?
Okay
The lights of the kebab shop blink through the traffic. The graffiti tags blend into the background.
I do it to get away. Simple as that. These days, its like the job is dead inside, lik everything’s gone, like even the air is dead, like that octopus on Walcott St.
Sorry, TLA mumbles.
Shit.
I’ll see you later, how was Vietnam?
Smells like fish, mud and formaldehyde. I think I’ve invented a new drink.
Why does it always hurt so much?
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Wonderfully impressionistic.
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He was either stalking us or has our phones bugged…
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I missed this before, how?
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Wasnt apporite for posting here Orbea.
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If anyone knows what’s apporite it’s you for sure
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doesnt like wintoning
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Think he means apposite?
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Quite the apposite
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Orbeast is ilegible.
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I liked Cloudstreet when I read it. It was a few years back now and Id just returned from 6 years absence so maybe that had something to do with it.
Although, Satan is not my master, he’s just a good friend.
What I dislike more than a Winton is a Winton lookalike dancing like a loon at Clancys with a T-shirt which says “I am not Tim Winton”
SA
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There might be a few people around here who need one of those shirts.
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I’m not Elizabeth Jolley.
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and just as well tla, just as well.
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The dribbling and short term memory loss might suggest otherwise.
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That’s his disguise. Ingenious, no?
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When is cloudstreet going to be on in W.A and what channel cause i think its on Foxtel.
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I burned my copy. Best decision of my life.
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good for you and well done James!
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Here I was thinking that I was the only person who didn’t like Cloudstreet. It is still the worst book I’ve ever read. Even Digital Fortress (a cruel test of endurance at the urging of Mr Jeez), Prey (freebie from Dymocks even though I said I didn’t want it and was again cruelly compelled by Mr Jeez), and a lame-arsed novel by Stella “I Should Have Known Better” Rimington contained unintentional hilarity, making them better than Cloudstreet. Thank God for Umberto Eco and Margaret Attwood.
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If there’s one thing I detest more than Winton it’s book snobs.
Mr Jeez sounds fairly, I dunno, dominant, what with his cruel tests of endurance an’ all. Maybe later he will ask you to don the owl-feather mask, and you will say no. That excites Mr Jeez. It angers him, but there is love in his fury, the sort of love you cannot expect anyone to understand.
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Dude, it’s courteous to wait for a week before slagging off new commenters.
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Thanks, Lazy Aussie.
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I for one welcome Jeez Louise. I liked your comment and hope you’ll stick around.
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travels with a salmon
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I’m here for a while yet, Shazzanator. Or can I call you Shazza?
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Sorry JL – meant to say “you’re welcome.”
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No hard feelings, NF. You are so right about Mr Jeez, and yet so wrong about me being a book snob.
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Hello jeez louise. Must point out that NF loves a certain kind of book snob.
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:-)
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Here’s one for you PL. It occurred to me recently that people who get a kick out of reading The Darwin Awards series are themselves likely candidates for The Darwin Awards.
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logic fail.
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many things occur to me, not all of them rational or kind.
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:)
I suppose that now is not the time to admit to having bought a couple of Penguins…
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ugh
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Cool.
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Glad no hard feelings JL – none here either.
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All this love is giving me hard feelings.
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Don’t you hate that?
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Whoa! This isn’t TWOP I’ve come to know anf love. Cunts.
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‘and’ not ‘anf’.
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Radio National TV reviewer has just been gushing about the new Clodstreet series, starting on Foxtel this weekend. Apparently Showtime will not be releasing this to free-to-air stations, though there may be (?!) a DVD down the track.
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Dude, it is the new Sullivans.
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Sullivans meets E Street?
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Sullivans on Swan
copyrighted 2009
by me
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I am a bit confused by all this.
Foxtel will get an audience of about 100,000 for this, which would hardly justify its budget. I doubt overseas broadcasters would be interested in watching colonial rurotards jump off a jetty in slow motion, so the only way they can recoup the money is by getting Seven and Nine into a bidding war
reckon they’re playing hard to get.
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Showtime is apparently attempting to position itself as Australia’s answer to HBO. The exclusivity is meant to reel in new subscribers.
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I would believe this if their productions were of similar quality to The Sopranos and The Wire, but I somehow doubt they will be hiring George Pelecanos, Dennis Lehane and Richard Price to write for them, and won’t have nearly enough gratuitous swearing, ultraviolence and shagging.
if they did a Deadwood-style version of Clodstreet, I’d pay to watch.
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Deadwood style? Nice. I’d prefer a Westworld version. Surely there’ll be a zombie version.
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found these excellent curriculum notes for those that can’t be arsed to watch ten hours of soap opera:
‘Fish dreams of drowning. Note: sky and river as one.’
that pretty much sums up the entire Winton oevre in one sentence.
Click to access cloudstreet_summary.pdf
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Celebratory picnic. Fish drowns
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Thanks for the link- now I’ll never read the book nor its summary.
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Even the summary is too long. It was however nice to be reminded of chapter titles such “Does the Poo Hurt” and “Floater,” though I had never thought of the two as connected before.
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Ugh. Had a read. God damn I hate Clodstreet.
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There is a great deal of debate about how to pronounce oevre. Here’s the definitive. http://tinyurl.com/3myfm25
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there’s time to invent a Clodstreet drinking game
any time anyone says ‘strewth’, take a drink….
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TWOP Clodstreet night once it’s out on DVD?
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How about when the wintoning movie comes out. Wintoning is this generations Cold Comfort Farm (which I’m reading at the moment.
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I’m waiting for the first Wintoning death (presumably drowning), and this craze will go mainstream and end up all over the news.
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There’s been a dozen kylie deaths this week.
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RR, good idea. To be held in that converted storm drain in Northbridge – something square. Drinks before & after @ thebird.
NF#1, you in?
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Would have to check with my #1 bird. Would much prefer a culvert.
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